in the footsteps of ghosts
Sofía Peirano-Friedman
in the footsteps of ghosts
the staggering terrain reflects the turbulence brewing on these trails.
my feet tread ever so lightly,
in a careful effort to preserve the rich and vibrant histories
that cry beneath each step
for permission to be remembered,
for permission to move freely through souls and streets —
a parade of time-traveling numbers.
74 years
2,160 acres
450 homes
four olive presses
one abandoned village
lifta, she was named
the six killed in a ’47 coffee shop
and the thousands more that fled.
sunrise comes,
bringing not the salvation this land cries for,
more picnic-goers to add to the troves of trash,
more barbed wire to block entry of some,
more forced holes in ceilings to fast-track the entry of others.
proof of life painted over,
trapping memories in its sticky suffocation.
walls adorned with
“god loves the jews”
and “death to arabs.”
love and celebration,
hate and death —
this twisted land where remembrance and ignorance wrestle to the death.
only one can win (so we were always told).
home,
in its skeletal and structural ruin,
must be further broken to be entered.
we must break to build.
vacant lots and dreams,
occupied minds,
occupied territories.
justice calls for my attention
as my heart sours
with regret and responsibility.
i am consumed by livelihoods and pasts
that do not belong to me —
that i went lifetimes without knowing.
if you will it, it is no dream
(so we were always told).
but what is this dream,
and whose is it anyway?
because when i close my eyes,
get high on hope,
taste the sugary sweet of fantasy —
who is beneath my feet?
what people say this land will always be
is not what i see,
not what i feel.
this is not what the land asks of me.
for she remembers, even when we forget.
